Queen of Blades (Dixie Mafia #1)

1. Paul Ricci

1

Paul Ricci

C utting the engine on the black BMW 7 series, Paul sat back in the luscious onyx interior, staring at the painted windows of the laundromat. Ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth turned up into a half smile as he studied the blue-and-white cartoon bubbles painted onto the large window. In just over a decade, the family business had expanded exponentially. The tiny illegal casino in the basement of Laundry Land had really springboarded them—legitimized their family.

It proved they were more than a bunch of thugs running around collecting debts, breaking legs, and solving the problems of other, larger syndicates. They had grown and established themselves as the powerhouse in Oklahoma, second in earning power only to the Cosa Nostra.

Paul couldn’t be more proud of the work they’d done.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped his fingers around the handle, pulled it, and opened the door. Exiting the vehicle, he mentally prepared himself for a “friendly” card game with the heads of the other organizations in the area.

As he buttoned the jacket of his navy Huntsman suit, he surveyed the barren parking lot. Aside from the silver Honda minivan with the red front fender, his was the only car. Smart. It would definitely be suspicious to have a slew of luxury vehicles parked there.

He wasn’t the first one to arrive. He never was. Most of the time, it was completely accidental, but not tonight. He’d intentionally shown up half an hour late. The rest of his family were early—as the hosts, they had to be, but not him.

Paul wasn’t the head of their syndicate. One day, maybe, but not now. That was his father, Joseph Ricci. He wasn’t even the second-in-command. Nope, that responsibility belonged to his uncle, Michael Kirk. Paul, his brother, Eddie, and his cousins, Sam and Mickey were what the Italian Mafia would refer to as underbosses. They had their own little niches to run within their organization. They worked together like a well-oiled machine to make money—a lot of it.

Pulling the front door of the laundromat open caused a bell to chime above his head. As he entered the establishment, his gaze swept over the space. Not much had changed in twelve years. The old dryers lined the walls with the washers in a row down the center. Plastic chairs from the 1980s faced the inside of the large room. To his left was a wood-paneled counter topped with green tiles.

Rotating his shoulder, he recalled the reason they had to remodel the counter years ago. No one forgot the first time they were shot. Especially considering the circumstances he’d been in. He supposed it was a rite of passage for those in his line of work. At least it was an amusing story, in retrospect, of course. In the moment, taking a bullet from Harper’s ex-boyfriend after getting caught screwing her—yeah, that wasn’t funny. Now, though, he could look back at the ridiculousness of it and laugh. It’d been a through and through, but he was still stiff. Paul always knew when it was about to rain—his shoulder throbbed.

As he strolled down memory lane, he frowned at the sight of the young, probably high-school-aged, blond behind the counter scrolling on her phone. He couldn’t explain why, but he’d half expected to see the tattooed brunette who hadn’t graced their establishment in twelve years and had been the reason he took that bullet.

Shaking his head, he disregarded the thought and shifted his focus to the matter at hand. He was late, after all. With confident strides, he made his way toward the back room and down to the basement with no acknowledgment from the girl who worked for them. As he descended the stairs, the faint jingle jangle and bells of the slot machines grew louder.

They’d crammed a lot into that space. Poker tables, craps, roulette, and roughly two dozen slot machines. It drew in quite the crowd. Today was no different. Frat boys crowded around the craps table, hooting and hollering. A mixture of blue-haired old biddies and degenerate alcoholics sat on stools in front of the video one-armed bandits. Those slot machines were the best moneymakers they had. The roulette wheel hosted a morose-looking man in his forties and two soccer mom lookalikes.

Business was booming. This had earned them the respect and business of the Italians, Russians, Japanese, Irish, and even the volatile Colombians. Paul liked to think of the others as disorganized organized crime. Their formal hierarchies had to do with family, which made them quite messy, sometimes promoting the most inept among them to positions of authority they didn’t deserve or weren’t equipped to handle.

That wasn’t the case with the Ricci family. While, yes, they were blood related, rising in the ranks had nothing to do with those familial relations. It had to do with skill, which was why their portfolio was quite diverse.

After a quick nod to the bulky bearlike man at the door, Paul entered the farthest back of smoky back rooms. To his right was a small bar containing only the most expensive of liquors and his uncle Michael chatting with the tender. Around a large poker table sat the heads of all the criminal enterprises in Oklahoma for their quarterly meeting. Mentally, Paul took attendance as he made his way toward the bar to mingle with the other soldiers. No one came alone.

Haruto Takahashi, the leader of Oklahoma’s Yakuza, with his silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a face full of wisdom creases, sat beside Joseph, chuckling as he tossed chips into the center of the table. Haruto worked closely with Eddie, producing adult films, considering Eddie dabbled in prostitution for the family.

Not in the sleazy human trafficking way, like the Russians. All Eddie’s women were willing participants. While they were criminals, Paul and his family had standards and somewhat of a moral code. There were some lines they wouldn’t cross. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t do business with the head of the Russian crime syndicate, Boris Sidorov, though. Boris and Sam relied on each other in getting the law to the look the other way. Which was why Sam kept close to Boris at the table.

Between Boris and Sam sat Niall Doherty, tossing his cards down and cursing. The Irishman was everyone’s best friend. He had the market cornered in Oklahoma when it came to arms. No one got anything without Niall’s approval. He was a good friend to have.

Then again, some would argue that Sebastián Rojas, the leader of the Colombians, was the best acquaintance there was. The jovial, dark-haired man always wore a smile, cracked jokes, and brought party favors. His specialty was imports. Oklahoma, as the landlocked state they were, didn’t exactly have ports, but somehow Sebastián made it work, and he always had the best supply.

Sitting with his back to Paul was the most important man of the evening, Dario Bianchi. The rotund Sicilian with thinning hair was the be-all and end-all of crime in Oklahoma. No one made a move without his permission. The Cosa Nostra may have faded out of the media spotlight with the conviction of John Gotti in New York back in the nineties, but they were alive and well, and running things a lot more quietly and successfully these days.

“So nice of you to show up,” quipped Uncle Michael as Paul approached.

Lifting a lone shoulder in a half shrug, Paul smirked. “What can I say? I enjoy being fashionably late.” Taking a spot beside his uncle, Paul rested an elbow on the bar top and turned to focus on the game. “I see my tardiness hindered nothing.”

After Michael took a sip of his drink, he smacked his lips. “Nah. Just the usual ass-kissing for Bianchi.”

Shifting his gaze, Paul made eye contact with the bartender, Jon, a longtime dealer/pit boss for the casino, who was Sam’s on-again, off-again love interest. Only the people closest to the Dixie Mafia leadership were permitted into that very private back room.

Jon nodded, no words spoken. He knew what Paul wanted and grabbed the glass, then quickly went to work, diluting Cutty Sark scotch whiskey with water before he slid the beverage over to Paul and offered a knowing wink.

“Have they gotten into new business yet?” Paul asked as he brought his drink to his lips.

Michael shook his head. “No, just old. Rehashed agreements, alliances, and whatnot. Everything seems to be going well.”

As he rolled the mellow, oaky flavor in his mouth before he swallowed, Paul returned his attention to the powerful men playing poker. They ran Oklahoma. He marveled at how fortunate his family were to have a seat at that table. They’d worked hard for it.

“I could use a quiet evening.” Paul sighed.

Everyone had their role to play in order to make their syndicate work. Joseph and Michael called the shots. Eddie handled their prostitution ring out of a series of high-end strip clubs throughout the state. Sam schmoozed the politicians and union representatives and kept the police out of their business. Mickey expanded their little gambling den from the lone location beneath Laundry Land to seven all over Oklahoma.

Paul’s specialty didn’t bring in money like the others, which was why his presence at the meeting wasn’t as imperative. As their family “fixer,” he ensured everything went smoothly. When a problem arose, it was his responsibility to make it go away, and he had a network of men beneath him with the same goal—to ensure smooth sailing for the Dixie Mafia no matter what.

“Shall we discuss new business?” Dario wheezed as he tossed a few chips into the pot, then puffed on the fattest of cigars. It filled the windowless room with a spicy, earthy scent and a thin haze.

The men at the poker table glanced at one another. For once, Sebastián’s pearly whites weren’t on full display. Paul arched a brow, intrigued.

“As you know,” Sebastián began as he shuffled the deck of cards, “things are a little hot right now.”

Boris nodded as he tapped the top of his stack of chips. “The Texas border is hostile these days.”

Sebastián shook his head. “Not that.” His grin returned. “We can handle that. I meant the dustup with the bikers.” He lifted a hand as the surrounding group bristled. “Nothing serious. We have got it under control, but it has shone a spotlight on us for sure. We have to tread a bit more carefully than normal.”

A round of knowing nods ensued.

“Anyway,” Sebastián continued, “some out-of-state friends have asked for a favor. It seems a problem of theirs has found its way to Oklahoma.”

Paul stepped closer to the table. This was his area of expertise, so it caught his attention.

“Normally, we would take care of it, but…” The Colombian’s voice trailed off.

“So, you’re looking to subcontract your contract?” Paul’s father asked as he tossed his cards away, folding.

Sheepishly, Sebastián shrugged and nodded. “ Sí .”

“How much?” asked Niall.

“Thirty million,” Sebastián answered quickly.

Now that got everyone’s attention.

Boris sucked air through his clenched teeth, making a hissing noise. “Meaning it’s personal?”

Paul inched closer to the table. “Or very public,” he murmured.

Dario turned his head, but not fully toward Paul. The room sat silent. The Italians didn’t micromanage things. Each syndicate handled internal matters without his say-so, but bringing out-of-state business to his territory required his permission.

Resting his cigar in the ashtray, he interlaced his fingers over the table and shifted his focus back to Sebastián, gesturing for him to continue.

“A lawyer from North Carolina.”

“What’s he doing here?” Haruto asked.

“ Familia .” Sebastián turned the river cards. “ Her dad is connected to one of those biker gangs.”

His nonchalant words got Paul’s attention. A lady lawyer, from out of state, with connections to a motorcycle club. That sounded familiar.

While he considered the families at the table disorganized, bikers were a whole nother breed. They were pure chaos—dangerous and unpredictable. Especially if they were the ones he knew. Tangling with one of their family would definitely start some shit. Considering the Colombians were already beefing with the bikers, taking this contract would only make matters worse. No one liked wars; even little skirmishes were bad for business. It was best to end them as quickly as possible.

“We’re out,” Haruto announced as he waved a hand. “I don’t mess with bikers.”

Sebastián nodded but surveyed the table. His gaze lingered on the Italian. It all came down to him. In order for anyone to take up the contract, Dario had to give the okay first. Without it, no one could move on it, no matter how hefty the reward, without feeling his wrath. No one wanted that.

Dario lifted his cigar again and eyed the burned end as though considering having to relight it. “Ten percent and I’ll allow it.”

“Of course.” Sebastián dipped his chin in deference. From his pocket, he pulled a newspaper clipping. Carefully, he unfolded it and laid it on the table for all to see.

The men leaned in. Stepping behind his father, Paul did the same, and his blood turned cold.

Joseph sat back and shook his head. “We’re—”

“I’ll do it,” Paul announced.

It earned him a perplexed look from his uncle across the room. The flat expressions of his family at the table were unreadable to most, but he knew he’d overstepped.

Too bad. He’d deal with that in time. This was his job. He didn’t care that it was an open bid. Paul would handle it.

Dario snorted. “It’s an open contract. First come, first paid.”

It wasn’t about the money. Paul would take this on free of charge. He’d already earned his father’s ire, so he kept that thought to himself. But no one else would touch her.

Harper Myers was his job.